she's the tear in my heart
by flowermasters
Summary: Murphy is in love with the girl he's sleeping with, and is incredibly bad at handling it. Modern high-school Memori AU.


A/N: John Murphy is a human trashcan, but a very precious one.

Warnings for: not very explicit sexual content, underage sex (well, Emori is 18, Murphy is still 17), underage drinking, language, Murphy and Emori not knowing how feelings work, background Clarke/Lexa, lots of cheesiness.

Title comes from "Tear in My Heart" by Twenty One Pilots.

* * *

The first time it happens, she's got her head between his legs and he's about thirty seconds from coming. He gasps out her name without even thinking about it because she does that one thing with her tongue, and okay, Emori's the first person to ever do more than stick her hand down his pants; he's probably allowed to not be super good at controlling what comes out of his mouth in situations like this.

It's so sudden, though, that she takes her mouth off of him and looks up with her eyebrows raised. "Yeah?" she asks. Her expression is very simple, just a questioning _you good?_ look, but Murphy feels panic coiling in his stomach. He can't remember hearing Emori ever say his name like that – she's said lots of other very complimentary shit, mind you, but he's never had any intentions of being the type to moan somebody's name in bed. It's a little cheesy for his taste.

"Nothing," he says, nearly tripping over the word, but thank God only _nearly_. "Just – do that again."

Emori looks rather satisfied with that (and she goes back to sucking him off), so he writes it off as a one-time thing. Until, of course, it happens again.

This time, he's thrusting into her from behind, and even in his limited purview, it's good sex. She's come twice, once from his fingers and again from his dick, and he can feel her body trembling, muscles ready to give out even as she keeps pushing her hips back to meet him. He's overcome by a sudden rush of – _feeling_ for her, and then suddenly he really is coming, pressing his face against the back of her neck and calling helplessly, " _Emori_."

She doesn't say anything right away, just flops down flat on the bed once he pulls out, only adjusting her position when he lays down beside her. She lets him put an arm under her shoulders, and then she rests her head on his chest. Her hand – the one only she is allowed to openly acknowledge – is sitting lightly on his stomach. It's weirdly intimate, he realizes. She's not exactly shy about her hand, she couldn't be after living with it for eighteen years, but she sure as hell doesn't like to put it on display either.

He's ruminating on that thought – the thought that they have become _intimate_ – when she breaks the silence. "So, what's gotten into you?" she says, lifting her head slightly to look at him.

"Nothing, lately," Murphy says, "but I'm feeling adventurous –,"

"Shut up," she says, but she rewards him with a smile. "You're being very . . . _sweet_ today."

"Sweet," he repeats, stalling because okay, she definitely noticed him saying her name when he came. He hadn't exactly been discreet, but he'd figured she'd let it slide.

"Yeah," she says, lowering her head again. "You're not usually this snuggly. I've tamed you, John Murphy."

"Give me five more minutes and I can prove otherwise," Murphy says, even though really, he's not that interested in another round. Okay, he's _always_ interested in another round, but flirting with her is easier than analyzing how comfortable he feels, how safe and satisfied. He wants to take a nice nap and wake up and find her sleeping, too, right here. He's never minded cuddling with her after they have sex, but he's also never cared how long the cuddling lasts. Or at least, he's never noticed that he cares until now.

She chuckles and then goes quiet again, and Murphy resists the urge to start playing with her hair because then she's really gonna get weirded out. After about ten minutes of silence, she sits up and starts rustling around for her clothes, and then he puts on his boxers and jeans and goes to sit by the window with a cigarette, because he looks like an asshole if he just lounges around naked while she puts on her clothes and leaves.

He makes himself look out at Ark City instead of her while she gets dressed, even though the view isn't nearly as fun. He hears her approach, though (she accidentally kicks a CD case he'd left on the floor – his room is a _bit_ of a pigsty, even in his eyes), and shifts his gaze to meet hers. She's in her work uniform, a knee-length black skirt and crisp blue collared shirt, complete with a _Hi, I'm Emori_ name tag. She's going to have to fix her hair in the car, though, because she looks like she's been doing exactly what she's been doing.

"You look like something out of a movie," she tells him, leaning her shoulder against the wall by the window.

He rolls his eyes at her. "Let me guess," he says, a cloud of smoke trailing out of his mouth and wafting through the open window. "The bad guy."

"No," she says, with a smile that he doesn't really know how to interpret. "Maybe just a guy who's been bad."

"You already got laid; you don't have to keep flattering me," Murphy says dryly, and Emori grins, then leans down to kiss him. The air smells like smoke, but with her this close he can smell the perfume she'd just spritzed on to disguise the smell of sex. It's a nice scent, floral and familiar, one that sometimes lingers in his room after she's gone.

"I have to go," she says when they part, and he must look disappointed, because she sighs. "Waffle House waits for no one, John."

"The citizens of Ark City need you," Murphy replies, taking a drag from the cigarette.

"Asshole," she says affectionately, and then she's gone, carefully traversing his messy room and shutting his bedroom door behind her. From his window he watches her walk down the narrow concrete path that leads to the curb, where she gets in her ramshackle car and drives away.

Once she turns the corner at the end of the street and disappears, Murphy exhales and says to nobody in particular, "Fuck."

They've been friends since March, and have been having sex since June, and it's mid-October now. All in all, it's been a satisfying few months, but Murphy has to do a little reflection, trying to identify the exact point he'd started acting like such a sap. He's one step away from violating their mostly unspoken policies about this situation; they're friends, specifically friends with benefits, and they cuddle after they have sex, but that's it. Emori's always gone before his foster mom Nygel shows up (not that she'd actually give a shit) and when they go to her place, he doesn't leave anything behind so her parents don't flip. All hanging out that occurs is just that, _hanging out_. They don't _date_. But, he supposes, they could. There's nothing technically stopping them.

With that thought in mind, he does something particularly dumb, and starts looking for his phone. _let's go to the movies_ , he texts her, testing the waters.

It takes her a few minutes – she can't text and drive thanks to only having one hand that she can efficiently text with, not that he actually wants her to risk dying for a text message – but once she gets to work, she responds. _what part of 'I have to work' did you miss?_

 _not now, genius_ , he texts back. _when you're off._

The wait stretches on and on until finally, she messages back. _not tonight. friday._

He sends her back a simple _okay_ , but privately, it feels like a triumph.

By the time Friday rolls around, though, Murphy's confidence is flagging slightly. He hasn't mentioned the movies again because he doesn't want to seem desperate or anything (he actually isn't, but Emori might _think_ he is.) The consequence of that, of course, is now he doesn't know if she even remembers.

He's leaning against the table in Nygel's tiny kitchen, eating a Hot Pocket for dinner while blankly staring down at his chemistry textbook, when his phone buzzes on the counter. A message from Emori reads _i'm at the curb. chop-chop._

Murphy grabs his jacket from where it's slung over the back of one of the kitchen chairs and hurries through the living room to the foyer. "I'm going out," he says to Nygel, more out of necessity than respect. Hopefully she'll remember to leave the back door unlocked for him tonight, but if she doesn't, his bedroom window isn't a bad climb.

She doesn't look up from the _Ark City Chronicle_ as he breezes past, but answers with a dry, "Sure."

Emori's car is idling outside, and Murphy settles into the passenger seat like he has dozens of time before. "Hey," he greets, mouth full of Hot Pocket.

Emori raises her eyebrows. "Hi," she says. Maybe he's imagining it, but he thinks she's wearing a little bit more makeup than normal. The car smells very faintly of her perfume, too. "Is Nygel feeding you alright?"

Emori doesn't think very highly of Nygel, but Murphy's pretty much over any distaste he might have once held for her by now. She's shady as hell, but he's got no room to judge (Emori doesn't have much more room, although he's not going to tell her that.) "Yeah," he says, once he's swallowed. "She has some Stouffer's lasagna and frozen pizza. I just didn't want to wait on the oven."

Emori smiles as she puts the car in gear and pulls away from the curb. "A man with priorities."

"That's me," Murphy says, offering her a bite.

"Nah," she says. "I want popcorn."

"So do I," Murphy replies, before finishing the Hot Pocket off in one large bite. Emori snorts, impressed as ever by how much food he can manage to consume. Murphy isn't used to impressing anybody with anything, so he'll take it.

They end up seeing a horror movie, and Emori lets him hold her hand and only laughs at him once, when he accidentally squeezes her hand as the killer jumps off a roof and suddenly lands in front of the obligatory doomed blonde girl in the movie. Murphy doesn't get a chance to mock her in return; she doesn't flinch even once, just twines their fingers loosely together and pays rapt attention to the screen.

Afterwards, they have sex in the back of her car (which is technically her locked up older brother's car, Murphy remembers halfway through, but fuck if he's going to let that bother him.) When all is said and done, Emori lounges across the cramped backseat in her underwear and Murphy's jacket, her legs draped over his lap while she smokes one of his cigarettes. She'd never let him randomly take a picture of her half-naked, but Murphy almost wants to, because he's pretty sure this is the only time someone or something has ever looked so unequivocally _his_.

Murphy checks his phone to find exactly one text, and when he looks up again, Emori is studying him from where she's leaning her head and shoulders against the opposite door. Her expression is pensive, oddly soft, and he cracks under the scrutiny. "What's up?" he asks her.

"Nothing," she says, giving his thigh a nudge with her big toe. "Who texted?"

"Mbege," Murphy says. "He's throwing a Halloween party."

"Mbege," Emori repeats, pausing to take a drag from her cigarette. "I remember him. The one from juvie."

"Most of the people I know are from juvie," Murphy points out. "You're kind of the exception."

"I'm flattered," she says dryly, exhaling a cloud of smoke and fanning it languidly towards the open window. "Well, are you gonna go? To the Halloween party, I mean."

"Might," Murphy says, because hey, it's something to do. "You could come, if you want to."

Emori gives him a look. "You know how I feel about Ark City High kids," she says. "You're kind of the exception."

"Grounders always come to Ark City parties," Murphy cajoles her. For good measure, he runs a finger lightly over her ankle, knowing full well that she's ticklish there. She squirms and begrudgingly cracks a smile, kicking lightly at his hand. "Believe me, I don't like any of them either, but there will be free alcohol."

Emori has an understandable distrust for kids outside of her own school; they're not used to her hand the way the kids at Grounds High are, and while she can tolerate people she knows acting weird about it, she can't stand strangers who do. Still, with Murphy and a decent number of Grounders there, she should be fairly insulated. Murphy's pretty sure he might deck somebody if they look at her funny (assuming, of course, that Emori doesn't lay them out first), which might land him back in juvie but will be one hundred percent worth it.

Emori looks contemplative, and then finally says, "I'm pretty sure I have to work on Halloween, so if I go, I guess it'll be as a sexy Waffle House waitress."

"It's cheating if you don't go in costume," Murphy says without missing a beat, and she rolls her eyes and nudges his thigh lightly again.

"You already got laid; you don't have to keep flattering me," she parrots, before flicking her cigarette out the window. "What time is it?"

Murphy checks his phone. "Ten-thirty."

Emori grimaces. "I need to take you home," she says, sitting up and shrugging off his jacket. "My parents are still on this 'if you're not at work or school, you should be home' kick. I guess they think I'm going to end up in jail like Otan."

There's a second's pause while Emori puts on her bra, and then she glances over at him. "No offense," she says, and he's so startled by it that he laughs.

"None taken," he says. "I'm on track to become a full-grown menace to society. It's impossible to hurt my feelings."

Emori grins. "I keep trying to tell you that you're not nearly as bad as you think you are, John," she says. "You just fucked up. Multiple times, and very badly. But you're not a bad person."

Her expression is lighthearted, but the words warm him. It's not the kind of thing he hears on a daily basis, and he's already figured out that he's kind of gone on her, so it's nice to hear her say it. "Thanks."

"You're welcome," she says, her smile softening into something he commits to memory.

She drives him back to Nygel's place, and he steels his nerves and kisses her goodnight before he gets out of the car – the act itself is not a violation of their arrangement, but the sentiment behind it is. She doesn't complain, but she does give him a slightly curious look when he pulls away. "Goodnight, John," she says as he opens the door and gets out.

"'Night," he says, before he closes the door and watches her drive away.

The party is the following Friday, but Murphy only sees Emori once that week for a quick hookup. She's got work and he's got midterms, which he actually has to study for if he wants to pass his classes and graduate on time. He's not good at school and never has been, so he's pretty sure he bombs each and every test. By the time the weekend rolls around, he's ready to get utterly trashed, and that's exactly what he does.

Mbege's party is fairly boring, at least to Murphy, but the lure of free alcohol is too powerful. He loses count of how many beers he's had after an hour, because he's bone tired and everybody at this party either hates him or is just as drunk as he is, so he might as well get good and liquored up by himself. If Emori was here, she'd tell him to stop moping and have fun.

Almost as soon as he thinks that – okay, like ten minutes after – she appears, like magic. He spots her standing in the kitchen, talking to some Grounder girl that's dressed like – an ice princess, maybe – and Bellamy Blake, who is almost annoyingly handsome in some kind of toga thing. Emori is actually wearing her work uniform, but she's cinched in the blouse and hiked up the skirt and her dark hair is in a neat, high bun. _She's a flight attendant_ , Murphy thinks, enamored, or maybe he says it out loud, because a couple of people glance over at him like he's crazy.

He's on his feet and weaseling his way through the living room before he knows it, making his way to the kitchen where the crowd is thinner and the music is slightly quieter. He passes Monty Green, Jasper Jordan, and Nate Miller playing beer pong at the kitchen table, and that's when Emori sees him coming. "John," she says, smiling. "What are you supposed to be?"

"A lumberjack," he tells her as he covers the distance between them. He'd actually just thrown on a flannel, jeans, and boots before leaving Nygel's place, but 'lumberjack' works.

He presses himself against Emori without even thinking, accidentally backing her against the counter as he wraps his arms loosely around her middle. She seems surprised, but not necessarily displeased. "How hammered are you?" she asks, amused.

"Was that a lumberjack pun?"

"Lumberjacks don't use hammers," she laughs. "Now I know you're shit-faced."

"I was bored," he says. "I was waiting on you."

"Well, I'm here now," she says. One of her arms is wrapped around his shoulders, but they're so close that he can't help but notice when she edges a glance over at Bellamy and his Grounder friend, who are still talking to one another about five feet away. Murphy is at the stage of inebriation where some kind of grand gesture sounds like a smart idea, so he kisses her even though a small, sober voice in the back of his head is saying, _don't be a fucking idiot, you fucking idiot._

Emori doesn't pull away, but he feels her go tense in his arms. "John," she says in a low, dangerous voice when he stops kissing her. "You're drunk."

"I know," he says, his words slurring as he tries to hurry and rectify the situation. He shouldn't have kissed her; that was stupid. He's also not really sure how loud he's talking, because the music keeps getting louder and then quieter again, like whoever's controlling the volume can't make up their mind. "I just – I need to get something off my chest, Emori."

"What?" she says, cagey. _She doesn't like to be stared at_ , Murphy thinks, very stupidly. _Are people staring at us?_

"I love you," he blurts, because he's gone too far to stop now. "I mean, I think I do. I just – I need to know if you –,"

She jerks out of his hold like his touch is a live wire. "You're acting like a goddamn mess right now, John," she snaps, and he can _feel_ everybody in the kitchen watching them but he can't do anything but look at Emori and clench his jaw, swallowing shame. "Get it together and then we'll talk."

It feels like he blinks and she's gone, leaving the kitchen and disappearing into the crowded living room before he has a chance to stop her. "Jesus Christ, Murphy," Bellamy says, after a brief quiet descends on the kitchen. "Where the hell did you learn how to talk to a girl?"

Murphy doesn't remember thinking about turning around and shoving Bellamy against the refrigerator, but he does it anyway. Barely a second passes before Miller, a fellow juvenile delinquent, grabs him by the back of his shirt and hauls him out of the kitchen while Bellamy straightens up, looking more exasperated than actually injured. After that, the party is basically over for Murphy. Miller, now joined by Mbege, herds him to the front door and out onto the stoop ("Get your ass home before you get yourself in trouble, Murphy," Mbege tells him, a hint of sympathy in his voice) and then he's walking the three blocks back to Nygel's, unable to think or feel anything but how quickly and colossally he's managed to butcher things.

In the light of the following morning, when he's unimpaired except for a pounding headache, Murphy doesn't know what to do. Emori's never been pissed off at him before, but he's seen her pissed with other people, and he knows that she likes to be left well alone for a little while afterwards. Besides, he has no idea how to compose a sincere apology text. _Sorry I made a scene and professed my undying love for you last night even though you literally hate being the center of attention; still want to hang out sometime?_

His best chance is to bump into her in public, where she can't yell at him and he can get a do-over, minus the recreational alcohol abuse. Showing up at her job is a last resort and he can't skip school to go talk to Emori at hers unless he fully gives up on graduating, so with that in mind, he texts Mbege. _when & where is the next grounder party_

 _there's 1 next friday at anya's place. u trying to go back to the detention center or something_

 _not on you're life,_ Murphy texts back. _shit. your._

School the following week isn't much more annoying than it usually is; Emori doesn't go to Ark City High School, so nobody really cares about Murphy coming onto her and getting rejected quite spectacularly, but everybody loves a drunken brawl, so his thwarted attempt to fight Bellamy is pretty popular news. Murphy doesn't exactly care – in a week or two, somebody else will get fucked up and punch somebody, and his life will be back to status quo.

He goes to school, goes back to Nygel's, does his homework (okay, most of it), and doesn't text Emori. He misses her, but he's giving her space. It's a little too much to hope that she might miss him, too, but she's more likely to be forgiving if he gives her time to cool off.

Saturday rolls around, and he takes a bus across town, then walks the rest of the way to the address Mbege gives him. From an objective perspective, this party actually looks fun, but Murphy is sober and doesn't know most of the people there, so he spends most of his time drifting from room to room looking for free food. After a while, he spots Clarke Griffin sitting alone on a couch, looking thoroughly downtrodden. He and Clarke are by no means friends, but she's in his lab group and is literally the only reason he's still passing chemistry, so he decides it's worth a shot to talk to her.

"Do you know a girl named Emori?" he asks, voice raised to be heard over nearby chatter and the thrum of the stereo.

Clarke seems startled that he's speaking to her, but since nobody else is, she can't exactly be picky about her choice of company. "The girl with –?"

"With the hand, yeah," Murphy says tiredly.

Clarke looks baffled. "I was going to say the one with all the piercings."

"Oh. No," Murphy says, moving to walk away. "So it's safe to say you haven't seen her. Never mind."

"Wait," she hollers over the music, and he stops. "Have you seen Lexa?"

Murphy actually knows who Lexa is, because almost _everyone_ knows who Lexa is. He hasn't exactly been paying attention to ninety percent of the people at this party, but he's pretty sure he might have taken note of her if she'd passed by. "No," he says. "Sorry."

"Oh," Clarke says, settling back against the couch and resuming her pouting. Murphy, to his own very great surprise, takes pity on her and walks around to the other side of the couch, where he sits down at a safe distance from Clarke.

"Why are you looking for Lexa?" he asks after a moment.

Clarke glances sideways at him, then sighs, not that he can hear it that well. "We're fighting," she says. "I guess I should thank you."

He raises his eyebrows at her, and she takes that as an indication to proceed. "You punching Bellamy at Mbege's party kind of deflected attention from us yelling at one another outside," Clarke explains. She has enough decency to at least look embarrassed about it.

"I didn't punch Bellamy," Murphy clarifies.

"Whatever," Clarke says, rolling her eyes. "Still, you barreling out of the house spoiling for a fight was a good distraction. You walked right by us, actually."

"I honestly don't remember," Murphy says, eyes scanning the crowd for Emori. At this point, he doubts she's going to show, but he'll stick around for a few more minutes just in case. "I was pretty wasted."

"I think everybody was," Clarke says, and Murphy might be misreading this, but he thinks there's an edge of regret in her voice. After a second's pause, she carries on. "I heard you guys fought over a girl."

Murphy's pretty sure if he rolls his eyes any harder, he'll damage something. Still, he can't fault Clarke for one thing; if she wants to know something, she comes right out with it. "You heard wrong," he says. "Well. Mostly."

Clarke studies him for a second. "Is Emori the girl?"

He blinks at her. "Is Lexa _your_ girl?"

She pulls a face. "That's a good question."

There's a sudden burst of chatter from near the door, and Murphy turns his head to look instinctively – there's Lexa, walking into the room with her chin jutting proudly, her attention flicking slowly about the room. She reminds Murphy of a lioness in tall grass; he likes her almost instinctively. "Well," he says, "I guess now's your chance to find out."

Clarke follows his gaze, and the sight of Lexa seems to serve as a catalyst (thank you, chemistry.) She rises immediately and takes a step away from the couch, then stops for a second. "Murphy?"

"Yeah?"

Clarke gives him a sage look. "If she's not here," she says, "then maybe you should go out and find her."

"Maybe," Murphy says. "See you Monday, Clarke."

"See you then," she affirms, and then she's gone, a blonde head bobbing through the crowd on the way to Lexa. A group of people has shifted, blocking his view of what happens next, but he can only assume he'll be able to tell how well it goes by their grade on the next chemistry lab report.

The idea of going on some quest through Ark City to find Emori is a romantic one, but she could technically be anywhere and Murphy doesn't have a car. He does, however, have a cellphone and enough courage left to try his last resort.

 _can we talk?_

It takes ten minutes, but she finally replies. _i'm working extra hours tonight. be here at 2 and we'll see._

He's already on the bus before he bothers to check the time, at which point he notices that it's only one AM. By the time he gets off the bus and walks the remaining distance to the Waffle House where Emori works, only twenty minutes have passed. He sits on the curb by Emori's car and waits, hands shoved in his pockets and nose numb, until finally the back door opens and Emori emerges from the orange glow of the building.

She spots him as she approaches her car, and frowns at him. "How long have you been out here?" she asks, coming to a stop next to him, her thighs level with his head. He does not make a joke about that.

"A while," he says, straightening up and sniffling involuntarily.

"You could have waited inside, John," she points out, like he's being particularly obtuse.

"You of all people should know that Waffle House has a strict no-tolerance policy on loitering," Murphy says, because he's so cold that sarcasm might be the only thing keeping him alive right now. "You of all people should also know that I'm broke and have no money for waffles."

She rolls her eyes at that, but he doesn't miss the way her lips curve into a half-smile. "I'd have bought you a waffle," she says. "They're like three bucks."

Before he gets a chance to respond, she smooths her skirt down and carefully perches next to him on the curb. "Here," she says, offering him her hands easily, with no hesitation. "I'm warm. It's always sweltering in there."

He pulls his fists out of his pockets and lets her rub them between her own. The feel of her hands is nothing but natural to him; you don't sleep with a girl on a regular basis and not get used to her touch, after all. "You're freezing," she comments quietly.

"An orphan with shitty social skills and bad circulation," Murphy muses. "I'm a walking cliché."

He wants to get her laughing, and so far it's working. She lets go of his hands after a moment, but she presses close to him, letting him leech all the warmth he can from her. "So," he says, while she's still smiling. "I owe you an apology."

Her expression sobers but she doesn't look away. "I'm listening."

Emori doesn't bullshit, which Murphy likes a whole hell of a lot, but it's tough to do the same when you've got by most of your life on bullshit. Still, he wants to be as real as he can with her. She deserves it. "I was a drunk asshole," he says. "I freaked you out. And I'm sorry."

She studies him for a second. "I believe you," she says, and he doesn't smile with relief, but that's only because his teeth are chattering.

For a moment they just sit there, huddled together so close that from a distance, it might look like they're kissing. Murphy opens his mouth to suggest that they go someplace warm, but Emori speaks first. "Did you mean what you said?" she asks, fixing him with that calculating look again. "Actually, do you even remember?"

"I remember," he says, and he can't bring himself to meet her gaze, not yet. "Let's just say I'm an honest drunk."

"John," Emori says softly, and _fuck_ , this is the part where she's going to let him down easy. She doesn't bullshit, but she's only cruel when provoked. "Look at me."

He does, and she asks, "Why did you have to get drunk to say something like that to me?"

"I didn't really have a plan, but that wasn't how it was supposed to happen," Murphy admits. "I wanted to give you a chance to start liking me back, but I fucked up. Multiple times, and very badly."

She smiles, but not in a mean way. "You didn't have to give me a chance to do anything, John."

He must look confused, because she rolls her eyes and starts explaining. "Is it that hard to believe I already _like_ you? After I've been enthusiastically fucking you since last semester and hanging out with you every time I'm not chained to a waffle iron?"

Murphy just blinks at her for a second, trying to process that. "Then why the fuck didn't _you_ say anything?" he blurts. "Okay, this is not all on me now."

She laughs, startlingly loud in his ear, and then he's laughing, too, because holy _shit_ , this is not how he thought this conversation would go. "What a pair we make."

Her laughter subsides, but barely. "I was afraid," she says. " _Fuck_."

"So was I," he replies, both because he doesn't want her to feel bad and because he's trying to make this whole 'being real with her' thing last. "But unlike me, you didn't get drunk and publicly humiliate both of us. So there's that."

"That reminds me," she says, with a giggle that warms him better than any waffle ever could. "Why did you try to beat that guy up?"

"That probably would have happened anyway, to be honest," Murphy says. "Bellamy deserves a good smack every now and then. It keeps his head from swelling to dangerous proportions."

"He was nice to me," Emori muses.

"As well he should be," Murphy says, in a nearly flawless impression of Clarke Griffin at her most prim, not that Emori knows Clarke well enough to get it. She laughs anyway.

A comfortable quiet falls then, until Emori breaks it with, "Let's go inside. I'll buy you a waffle so you don't freeze to death."

"That," Murphy says, "is the most romantic thing anyone has ever said to me." He kisses her then, not because of the breakfast food but because he can, and because he's a little bit giddy off of the idea that she just might love him back.

It's a goddamn good kiss, because when he pulls away she says, surprised and breathless, "Fuck, John."

He grins. It's not a bad start.


End file.
